


I Need You At The Dimming Of The Day

by SovaySovay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Can Hear Longing, Castiel in Purgatory, Dean in Purgatory, Love Confessions, M/M, Purgatory, Train of Thought
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5570047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SovaySovay/pseuds/SovaySovay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell, he could have survived.</p>
<p>Hell is just torture. Physical, mental, psychological, but simply torture. At least, in hell, you know you’re only going to come up against bad. There’s no chance of relief, so you stop dreaming about it eventually (or so he’s heard). Besides, what demon would volunteer to torture an angel? Even they know the soldiers of heaven are built to withstand a lot, more than they’d expect. And he knows that he wouldn’t break under the pressure: he’s been tortured a hundred thousand times in his life; hell would seem like insects poking him with needles for twenty seconds at a time.<br/>Yes. Hell, he could have survived.<br/>But not this. Not Purgatory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Need You At The Dimming Of The Day

Hell, he could have survived.

Hell is just torture. Physical, mental, psychological, but simply torture. At least, in hell, you know you’re only going to come up against bad. There’s no chance of relief, so you stop dreaming about it eventually (or so he’s heard). Besides, what demon would volunteer to torture an angel? Even they know the soldiers of heaven are built to withstand a lot, more than they’d expect. And he knows that he wouldn’t break under the pressure: he’s been tortured a hundred thousand times in his life; hell would seem like insects poking him with needles for twenty seconds at a time.  
Yes. Hell, he could have survived.  
But not this. Not Purgatory.

The place is in a constant state of limbo between darkness and light, which is as foreign and unsettling to him as it would be to any other angel. He doesn’t have a lot of time to spend being unsettled, though: there’s always something one step behind him, something clawing at his heels, trying to drag him through the mire and into the dark. A few times, he could have sworn he felt hands latch onto his throat, but the moment he lifted his wings, the feeling would dissipate, and he would be left alone. Alone with wings extended, about to fly. But where could he fly to? There is no quiet place in Purgatory, no rock or tree or river to touch and call “safety” like a game of tag.  
So he stands in a clearing, wings half-lifted, feathers just barely feeling the air, wondering for the thousandth time today if he should take to the air and try to escape. Of course, this train of thought carries him directly back to the beginning: escape where, idiot?

He folds his wings again and keeps walking. He’s been walking for at least a month now, aimlessly, barely keeping himself alive. That’s the other question he asks when he needs to stop thinking about flying away to nowhere: why stay alive here? He tells himself it’s punishment, that he’s doing penance for what he did on earth and in heaven, but the more rational and angelic side of him knows that that is a lie. If he truly wanted to repent for his crimes, he would have let himself die by the hand of the first creature that attacked him. Some other twisted soul comes roaring at him from a hidden spot by the river and he kills it robotically, not even stopping to think. On a whim, he decides to follow the river for a few days, and part of him thinks it’s because he needs something to follow, and part of him thinks it’s because he wants to be found, and part of him (the part he listens to most) thinks there’s no reason behind it. The part of him that says he wants to be found digs into his brain: yes, he wants to be found… but by monsters? Or by someone else?  
  
He pushes the thought away, because as soon as he thinks it, his wings shake the dust and ache off, ready to fly. He knows by now that if he lets himself think about it too much, he’ll be there in a heartbeat without even consciously lifting his wings.  
And that, the colder side of him says, that is why he should have let himself be killed in the first five minutes he was there. This isn’t a punishment anymore, not really. The long days of fighting and killing and being torn apart should have been his retribution for what he did, what he became. Now, though, they’re just work. Something to pass the idle time until dusk. And the physical pain from the wounds is nothing– nothing– compared to the pain he feels in the evening.

He’s heard stories, recently. Monsters that had formed alliances, whispering to each other that one or another had been killed by a human roaming Purgatory, a human that had sent hundreds of them here in the first place. Once, he even heard some creature tell another that the human was asking questions before he killed; not about how to leave, but about where someone was. Someone? the other monster prodded. Is there another human here? His brother–? No, she was assured, there weren’t two of them. The human was looking for an angel.  
He turned and fled when he heard that. Not out of fear, but because he knew if he heard one more word of that discussion, his wings would lift him up and carry him away. The sky lost some of its faded contrast, which was the only perceptible difference between day and night in Purgatory, and the angel kept following the river. His hands wound themselves into fists without his noticing, and his steps got longer, the three or four voices in his head arguing with each other:  
Flying was really the only way to keep himself safe– but why would he want to keep himself safe? He was here to repent, to be punished, and the only way he could do that was to let some monster kill him, or at least injure him– Oh, no, but he wants to be found, of course he does, he wants to be killed, no, he doesn’t want to be killed, he doesn’t want to die.

_Cas?_

He wants to be found.

_Can you hear me?_

Yes, he can, and every pain in his body from claws and teeth and blades is pressed out of existence by the sheer weight of the voice. The fighting components of his mind and his soul stop dead, almost sighing with relief.

_I haven’t been keeping track, really, but I’m pretty sure it’s been about a month now._

A month, a month is nothing to him. He lived for millennia without this man, how is it possible that he can hardly bear it for a month now?

_I don’t know why I keep praying every night. It’s not like you’re going to show up, you’ve proven that._

The flicker of anger squeezes his heart even more. He’s stopped walking now, just standing by the bank of the river with his eyes shut tight, every fiber of his being trying to keep himself from flying towards the voice.

_Hell, you might even be dead._

The voice cuts out for a second, halfway through the last word. Over the past few years, there have been so many calls via prayer that the man’s gotten very good at controlling it. And because of that, Cas has learned to listen carefully to what he can hear, so now he knows that the prayer was silenced on purpose, he knows that somewhere in Purgatory there is someone trying to hold in his breath, even keep in his tears.  
Before this man, he had heard prayers of desperation and sorrow and pain, and he had cared more than the other angels, but no prayer had ever pierced his heart like this.

_No, you aren’t dead. If you were, I’d know. I don’t know how, but I would._

He’s sitting against a tree now, knees brought up to his nose, a very human posture that the more angelic side of him would recoil at, if he could possibly be so fragmented now. No, when that voice speaks in his mind, every shattered piece of his soul can pick itself up and piece itself back together.

_Look, Cas, I don’t know why you’re staying away. Knowing you, something’s gone wrong. I don’t care what it is. We’ll work it out once we leave Purgatory, okay? I just need to find you._

Every vein, every nerve, every part of him beats wildly against his mind, begging to vanish and appear at the source of the prayer, to hold on and never let go again.

_Just let me know you’re okay. Anything. Something that’ll tell me you’re out there and I’ll see you again. You can’t just leave. You always leave._

The angel shatters. The voices in his mind split and return, reminding him of his failures, his lies, the blood on his hands, how nothing he could ever do, no number of times he could die in agony would ever, ever redeem him for the things he’s done. He has created so much suffering, and been so selfish, and killed so many, and he will never, should never forgive himself. He is unforgivable.

_I love you, Cas._

And every part of Castiel that is bruised and tormented and miserable melts away. All that remains is the side that wants to follow the thin strand of the prayer, and the side that is telling him not to, and that is growing weaker by the moment.  
Almost like he’s embarrassed, Dean’s prayer cuts out. It does not return. Cas’ heart is pressed to nothing. He missed his chance. Without the lifeline of his voice, he can’t find the trail that leads to him.

The weight on his soul is heavier than ever before, and he can barely drag himself up off of the ground to keep following the river. In some way, he considers staying where he was, waiting for someone to find him.  
He wants to be found. But he stands, and he walks down the riverbank, the same old questions in his head, but changed; he’s more certain in his own answers now.

Should he take to the air and try to escape? No. If he lifts his wings, they will only take him one place, and that would be a death sentence to the man he’d fly to.

Then why live at all, Castiel? There he cannot answer, but it is no longer a question. He has to live. The ache in his heart pulling him towards Dean will not let him die, so he will not.

Hell, he could have survived.

And Purgatory, he will.


End file.
